


It's Not Lupus

by kjack89



Series: House M.D. AU [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Doctors, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - House M.D. Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Doctors & Physicians, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Gun Violence, M/M, Major Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>House M.D.</em> AU. Dr. Grantaire is one of best diagnosticians in the country, but his skills are put to the test when he's assigned a patient with whom he has a past, Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not Lupus

**Author's Note:**

> This is really just because Netflix recently added House and I've been marathoning it. No knowledge of the TV show is needed.
> 
> All medical knowledge stems from bad medical tv shows and wikipedia, so should obviously not be taken as fact.
> 
> Usual disclaimer regarding source material and me not owning it. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

Grantaire limped into Combeferre’s office, took one look at Combeferre and, across from him, Courfeyrac, and asked, “Am I being sued?”

Courfeyrac hid what sounded suspiciously like a snicker behind his hand while Combeferre massaged his temples. “Dr. Grantaire. Did you know that when I hired you to work in this hospital, I set aside a specific fund for you being sued?” Combeferre asked.

“Yes,” Grantaire said instantly, still frowning at Courfeyrac, who was finding it increasingly hard to hide his laughter.

“And did you know that for the past six months I haven’t had to touch that fund?”

“No,” Grantaire said, switching his gaze to Combeferre. “Is this where you tell me that I’ve been a bad boy and that you’ve finally had to dip into that fund?”

Combeferre rolled his eyes and Courfeyrac snorted. “Shockingly, no. Have a seat. You know Courfeyrac, of course, the hospital’s attorney.”

Grantaire nodded at Courfeyrac, who nodded back, as the two had spent many hours working together on the various lawsuits that Grantaire was charged with over the course of his sordid history with the hospital. It wasn’t that Grantaire’s methods were illegal — or so he insisted — as much as they were  _unconventional_  — or so Courfeyrac argued in front of numerous review boards. “So if I’m not being sued, what do you want? I’m deducting as long as this conversation takes from my clinic hours, by the way.”

Combeferre took a deep, calming breath. “You have a patient.”

“No I don’t,” Grantaire said, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on Combeferre’s desk. At Combeferre’s glare, he rolled his eyes and said, “Bum leg, you know.” Then he pulled a pill bottle out of his pocket and dry swallowed two pills.

“Let me rephrase. I have a patient for you.”

Grantaire looked balefully at Combeferre, who met his gaze squarely. “And let me rephrase — I don’t want a new patient.”

Combeferre leaned forward. “Unfortunately for you, that’s not your choice.” He slid the patient file across his desk towards Grantaire, who heaved a sigh and leaned forward to pick it up. “The patient’s name—”

“Is irrelevant,” Grantaire murmured, flipping through the file. “Unless if he’s a board member or someone you _really_  don’t want me to kill.” When Combeferre was suspiciously silent, Grantaire looked up at Combeferre. “A board member, really?”

Courfeyrac cleared his throat and spoke for the first time. “Not quite. A board member’s son. Enjolras.”

Grantaire’s expression twisted slightly. “The golden boy himself, huh?” he muttered. “The savior of modern medicine — or so he purports to be. What, the money daddy made by operating on fat old ladies isn’t enough to get him the treatment that he needs?”

“The problem is more that his doctor doesn’t know  _what_  treatment he needs,” Combeferre told him, sitting back in his chair. “And I’m asking you to take this patient as a personal favor to me.”

Leaning back in his chair as well, still glancing down at the file, Grantaire asked mildly, “Why, because he’s your best friend? Because you believe in the nonsense he spouts about revolutionizing the way we do medicine, the way we approach patients and disease and all that bullshit? Or a combination of both?”

Combeferre frowned, and Courfeyrac said quickly, “It isn’t bullshit. If you would just come to one of his meetings—”

“Forgive me if I don’t want to spend my free time getting lectured about medicine by someone with a JD after his name instead of an MD.” Grantaire glanced at Courfeyrac and gave him a half-smile. “No offense meant, of course.”

Courfeyrac shrugged and grinned in return, but Combeferre did not look amused. “Your personal feelings for the guy aside, he needs help. He was shot, a few weeks ago at a protest—”

“Well, there’s your diagnosis. The guy’s an idiot for getting in the way of a bullet.”

Combeferre’s expression turned murderous. “And he was completely cleared by the emergency room, after being stitched and wired and plated back together. Which, I’ll have you know, as his best friend, was not the easiest thing to sit through. And now, he’s presenting with a whole host of issues that his previous doctor says has nothing to do with the bullets that he had to remove from my best friend’s abdomen.”

Grantaire’s expression didn’t change, and his tone was still caustic when he replied, but something shifted in the conversation. “Then it’s an infection from the bullet wounds. Or he picked up a virus from his hospital stint.”

“The tests came back clear.” Combeferre leaned forward, his expression guarded. “Please, Grantaire. He requested you, and he needs your help, and despite everything, I trust you.”

For a moment, it looked like Grantaire might agree. But then his eyes narrowed slightly. “He didn’t request me,” he said, frowning at Combeferre. “If he had requested me, you would have led off with that, to stroke my ego, thinking it would increase my chances of saying yes.”

Combeferre shot a look at Courfeyrac, who just shrugged, and sighed. “Alright, fine. He didn’t request you. He requested Dr. Feuilly.”

Grantaire sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “Interesting. The guy’s been around medicine his entire life, knows this hospital inside and out, and requests not the head of diagnostic medicine, but one of the doctors who works under the head of diagnostic medicine. Why do you think that is?”

Courfeyrac cleared his throat before starting diplomatically, “Enjolras has long admired Dr. Feuilly and the way he’s worked up to his position—”

Grantaire waved a dismissive hand. “Fascinating, but not medically relevant.” He stood, levering himself up with his cane, and started limping towards the door. “I’ll take the case.”

Combeferre half-stood, a confused look on his face. “But—”

“If he wants Dr. Feuilly to work on him, that means he gets my team. That means he gets me.” Grantaire turned to stare challengingly at Combeferre. “Isn’t that exactly what you called me in here to tell me?”

“Well, yes, but—”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “If you’re worried that I have some kind of bizarre reason for taking this case, don’t worry about it.” He tipped a wink at Courfeyrac before adding, “I do, but the reason involves me solving what’s wrong with him, and that’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

Without waiting for an answer, Grantaire left, limping down the hallway towards his office, where the four doctors who worked for him were waiting. “We have a case,” Grantaire announced, tossing the file down on the table. “Thirty year old male, recent gunshot victim, presenting with fatigue, muscle pain, and — I’m quoting here, since this is straight out of a medical textbook — malaise. Symptoms appear not to be related to the gunshot, as he tested clean for infection and viruses. Feuilly will get the patient’s medical history and take some blood for testing. The rest of you — do what you do.”

Feuilly exchanged glances with Prouvaire and Bahorel before asking, “Why do I have to do the history?”

“Because the patient requested you.”

This drew startled looks from all four, and Bossuet was the first to say, “Is…is the patient  _Enjolras_?” At the even more startled looks from the other three, Bossuet rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, what other doctor does Enjolras harbor a weird sort of platonic crush on? You’ve heard the way he goes on about him at Les Amis meetings.”

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Right. So like I said, Feuilly will get the patient history. I have to ask Dr. Joly for a consult.”

“You think Enjolras has cancer?” Bahorel asked sharply.

“I  _have_  more than one patient,” Grantaire sniped, limping towards the door.

“Since when?” Bahorel called after him, shaking his head when Grantaire flipped him off. He glanced at Prouvaire, Feuilly, and Bossuet. “Does no one else think that this is weird?”

Prouvaire just shrugged and pulled Enjolras’s file towards him. “Honestly, it’s Grantaire. I’ve kind of stopped noticing what’s weird and isn’t with him at this point.”

* * *

 

Grantaire did not bother knocking, instead barging straight into Joly’s office. “I’m with a patient,” Joly said, glancing up at Grantaire, bemused.

Rolling his eyes, Grantaire said, “Your patient has cancer. She can wait. It’s not going anywhere in the next few moments.”

Joly looked up at the ceiling as if asking for support, then told his patient, a wide-eyed older woman, “I’ll be right back. Dr. Grantaire just needs a quick consult.” He stood and followed Grantaire out into the hallway, scowling. “Whether or not my patient’s cancer is going anywhere doesn’t mean you can just barge in there and—”

“It’s Enjolras.”

Joly blinked. “Enjolras, Enjolras? Like the guy who leads the activist group that I keep trying to get you to join? Like the guy you once described as a perfect marble statue? Like, the guy you fell in love with when you were an undergrad at Harvard, Enjolras?”

Grantaire frowned slightly. “Falling in love with is probably overstating things a little. He was a freshman, and so fucking naïve. We got stuck in a philosophy seminar together, and we almost hooked up once. Before I realized what a pain in the ass he was. If that’s love…”

“So much of a pain in the ass that it’s been over a decade and you still think about him? Or at least think that’s it’s a problem that merits my attention?”

Shrugging, Grantaire tapped his cane against the floor a few times before saying grudgingly, “He’s just been admitted to the hospital. As my patient.”

Joly looked taken aback for a moment. “You shouldn’t have taken the case,” he said, frowning. “It’s a conflict of interest, and ethically speaking—”

Grantaire snorted. “Fuck the ethics. I barely know him. We haven’t had a real conversation in years. There’s no conflict.”

“Then why would you come to see me?” Joly asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Half-smiling, Grantaire shrugged again. “To head off any questions from your later of whether it was a conflict?” he suggested, sounding as if he didn’t believe it himself. “To head off you trying to tell me — or worse, Combeferre — that I’m emotionally invested or some shit like that.”

Joly shook his head. “Aren’t you?” he asked quietly.

“You’re the only one who gets emotionally invested with patients,” Grantaire snapped, his grip on his cane tightening. “Personally, I wouldn’t care if I didn’t have to see him the entire time that he’s here. What I  _do_  care about is solving whatever’s wrong with him.”

He started heading down the hallway, and Joly called after him, “Oh yeah? And what do you think is wrong with him?”

Grantaire half-turned and managed a smirk. “Off hand, I’d say lupus.”

* * *

 

“It’s not lupus,” Grantaire said, writing Enjolras’s symptoms on the whiteboard in his office and frowning at them.

“Well, it  _could_  be lupus,” Bossuet reasoned. “The malaise, the joint pain, the fatigue, those all fit lupus.”

Bahorel snorted. “They also fit about a hundred other diseases. I mean, that’s a vague diagnosis from the vaguest of symptoms at best. Besides, I think it’s far more reasonable to assume that these stem from the gunshot wound.”

Prouvaire shook his head. “But if they were related to the gunshot wound, they’d be more localized. These symptoms are widespread throughout the body.”

Bossuet shrugged, but continued, undeterred. “Fine, if we’re not looking at lupus, let’s look at what else we know: thirty years old, unmarried, hot as hell—” At everyone’s look, he shrugged and said, “Just because I’m in a committed relationship doesn’t mean I can’t look, and objectively speaking, the man is attractive.”

“Is he now,” Grantaire said, noncommittally, and Feuilly raised an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, objectively, he is, which you would know if you ever came to one of Les Amis’ meetings. Not that you would need to, since according to Enjolras, you two know each other.”

Grantaire did not blush under the astonished looks from the other three, merely raising his own eyebrow back at Feuilly. “He and I were at Harvard together, when I was a senior and he was a freshman. But I’m far more interested in how Bossuet is going to relate his ‘objective hotness’ into a medical diagnosis.”

Bossuet did blush slightly at that. “Syphilis,” he said, squeaking slightly on the word. “Don’t tell me I’m the only one with the misfortune to think it.”

“About Enjolras? Definitely.” Bahorel wrinkled his nose. “Have you  _met_  the man? There’s no way he’s got an STD.”

“The symptoms line up,” Bossuet insisted. “Untreated syphilis could fit the symptoms.”

Feuilly cleared his throat. “The symptoms might line up, but the patient history…doesn’t. Enjolras is a virgin.”

Grantaire dropped his cane, and winced when it clattered against the floor. “Sorry, I, uh — what? That…can’t be right.” He grabbed Enjolras’s chart off the table and started flipping through it. “He’s seriously listed nothing under sexual history?”

“That’s what he told me,” Feuilly said calmly. “And I have no reason to believe that he was lying.”

Grantaire snorted. “Everyone lies. And there’s no way someone that hot isn’t getting any.”

“Hepatitis C,” Prouvaire said, suddenly, staring at the symptoms. “Enjolras got a blood transfusion when he was in the hospital after being shot, and Hepatitis C would match all of Enjolras’s symptoms. The blood could have been tainted.”

Bahorel looked skeptical. “In today’s day and age, the amount of tests that donated blood goes through would almost always rule out Hep C.”

Grantaire stooped to pick up his cane. “Almost always, but that means that there’s always a chance. Start him on interferon, and run his blood to check for Hep C.”

“Shouldn’t we wait to see if he has Hep C before treating Hep C?” Feuilly asked. “The side effects of interferon—”

“Are pretty mild when weighed against the possibility of our patient dying,” Grantaire said, settling down in his chair. “Now go, scoot. Save his life or something.” The four picked up their belongings and left Grantaire in the office, staring at the symptoms listed on the whiteboard, twirling his cane, his mind on the patient, but far from the patient’s symptoms.

* * *

 

“It’s not Hep C.” Feuilly handed Grantaire the test results, and Grantaire scanned them wordlessly. “And he’s getting worse.”

“New symptoms?” Grantaire asked sharply, sitting up in his chair.

Bossuet nodded. “Nausea and muscle cramps.”

Bahorel sat down at the table, frowning at the whiteboard as Grantaire stood and hobbled over to add the symptoms to the list. “The nausea and muscle cramps could easily be a side effect of the interferon.”

“But they could also be a new symptom,” Prouvaire reasoned, sitting next to Bahorel.

Bahorel snorted. “Of what? Every symptom listed up there could present for hundreds of different diagnoses. How are we supposed to rule it out?”

Grantaire capped the marker and turned to survey them. “By knowing that it’s not viral, and it’s not bacterial. What does that leave us?”

“Autoimmune?” Feuilly suggested, and Bossuet nodded in agreement. “What about paraneoplastic syndrome?”

“Don’t you think leaping from Hep C to cancer is a bit of a stretch?” Grantaire asked, though he sounded intrigued.

Feuilly shrugged. “You’re the one always telling us to think outside the box. Polymyositis could explain all of the symptoms, including the nausea and cramping.”

Frowning slightly, Prouvaire said slowly, “But that doesn’t seem very likely…”

“So what else would suggest, leaving him on the interferon?”

Prouvaire blushed and shook his head, and Bahorel interjected, “And, what, the only alternative is cancer?”

Grantaire cleared his throat. “You can bicker on your own time, children. If it is cancer, we need to a way to find it. We can’t do an MRI, since half of the idiot’s rib cage is made up of metal plates at the moment.” He tapped his cane against his chin thoughtfully for a moment before ordering, “Do a CT and an LP, and do a lymph node biopsy, in case it’s lymphoma. And send Dr. Joly in to talk to the patient.”

“What do you want Joly to talk to the patient about?” Bossuet asked.

“You love life,” Grantaire dead-panned. “I don’t know, maybe the case? If the guy’s got cancer, wouldn’t it make sense to send in the oncologist to explain what we’re doing and what treatments are available if it does turn out to be cancer?”

Everyone stood, though Prouvaire hesitated as he did. “Are you going to come see Enjolras at all?”

Grantaire snorted. “I make a point of not seeing my patients unless absolutely necessary. More fun this way.”

“He’s not just a patient. He’s Enjolras. He’s our friend.”

Glancing at Prouvaire, Grantaire started to say something, then stopped, turning away again. “He’s  _your_  friend,” he corrected. “He’s just some guy I went to school with. I don’t even know the guy. Now go.”

It seemed odd, but every time Grantaire said the lie, it seemed easier, and he barely even glanced after the other doctors as they left, trying to force himself to forget everything he knew about Enjolras.

* * *

 

Joly knocked on Enjolras’s hospital room door and poked his head in. “Hey,” he said, smiling when he saw Enjolras, who was sitting up and laughing with Courfeyrac. “This isn’t a bad time, is it?”

“No, I was just leaving,” Courfeyrac told him cheerfully, patting Enjolras’s hand. “Get better, would you? I already spend enough hours in this godforsaken hospital, I don’t need to spend more just to hang around with your sorry ass.”

Courfeyrac stood and, after a brief hesitation, reached down to hug Enjolras as best as he could around the tubes running into his body. Then he left, patting Joly on the shoulder as he brushed past him. Joly smiled down at Enjolras. “How are you feeling?”

Enjolras shrugged, and lifted a hand to rub his eyes, looking exhausted. He also looked painfully thin, and Joly’s expression looked briefly concerned before smoothing out again. “About the same, I guess.” Enjolras bit his lip as he looked up at Joly. “Are you here just to visit, or…”

Joly swallowed and looked down. “In an official capacity, I’m afraid,” he muttered.

For a long moment, Enjolras was silent, but then he said slowly, “So they — so Grantaire — they think that I have cancer?”

“It’s too soon to know for sure, but your symptoms line up with a syndrome that normally indicates a tumor, yes. The good news is that if it is cancer, we can start you on treatments right away.” Joly tried to smile as he joked weakly, “As much as I know it will kill you to lose your hair.”

Enjolras automatically raised a hand to his blond curls before dropping it back in his lap. “Well, I honestly can’t say that I was expecting cancer.”

Joly took a step closer to Enjolras’s bed, looking concerned. “I know that this is an awful lot to take in, but that’s why I’m here, so that I can help answer any questions that you might have.”

After a beat, Enjolras glanced up at Joly. “Alright, in that case, I’ve got a question for you: why hasn’t Grantaire come to see me?”

Joly’s mouth dropped open in almost comical shock. “That’s… _really_  what you want to ask me? I just told me you might have cancer and you want to know about Grantaire?”

Enjolras flushed but stared up at Joly determinedly. “We won’t know if the cancer diagnosis is correct until we get the test results back, so there’s not really a point in worrying about it until then. Grantaire, on the other hand…”

“Is a problem that you can pretty much always worry about,” Joly supplied, rubbing his forehead as he sat down next to Enjolras. “Dr. Grantaire never visits patients if he can’t help it. It’s part of his…well, I’d call it charm but that would be a lie. Part of his process, I guess. He believes that everyone lies, and that by removing himself from the patient and just focusing on what the body is telling him, there’s a better chance that he’ll solve the case.”

Enjolras snorted and shook his head. “Always a cynic, even now. I guess that hasn’t changed.” He glanced over at Joly. “But something about Grantaire has changed. I hear his name mentioned constantly, and very rarely in a good way. Sure, he’s a good doctor, but from what I gather, he’s also become a complete asshole, and when I knew him…he was never like that. He was always having fun and joking around.”

Joly pursed his lips slightly. “When was the last time you spoke with him?”

There was a short pause before Enjolras said, too quickly, “Not really since school, I guess…”

“When was the last time you  _really_  spoke with him?”

Enjolras looked at Joly, then looked away. “Hospital Christmas party. About…three years ago, I guess? Grantaire had just been promoted to head of diagnostic medicine. Youngest diagnostic head in the country, if memory serves me correctly. I wanted to congratulate him.”

Joly half-smiled. “And let me guess, Grantaire wasn’t in a congratulatory mood at the time?”

Enjolras looked down at his lap, running his thumb nervously over the IV needle in his arm. “Not really,” he muttered. “He had been drinking, and he…he said some things. I doubt he even remembers. He was rambling. And this was before his leg, which I heard about, but still. Something changed between when I knew him and then, and with the addition of his leg problems…”

“He’s in constant pain from his leg,” Joly acknowledged, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. “A muscle infarction. There was nothing that could have been done besides amputating, and Grantaire…I don’t know if it was the pain making him not think straight or what but he insisted on keeping the leg. So he self-medicates constantly. Doesn’t drink as much as he did back then, because of side effects with the vicodin, so there’s that, at least.” Enjolras’s expression didn’t change, and Joly sighed again. “Do you know who Dr. Jean-Antoine Gros is?”

Enjolras blinked, confused. “Sure. He’s one of the best pediatricians in the country, isn’t he?”

Joly nodded. “Yeah. He is. Well, Grantaire trained under him at Johns Hopkins.”

Enjolras gaped at him. “Pediatrics — and Grantaire? You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“Nope. Pediatric oncology, to be specific.”

Enjolras’s expression twisted. “And what happened? Did he realize that even kids with cancer were too full of joy and hope to fit with his fucked up world views?”

“No,” Grantaire said from the doorway, unamused, and when they both turned to stare at him, forced a half-smile. “My kid sister died of cancer while I was doing my residency. They had it misdiagnosed and sent her to three doctors before someone could figure out what it was, and by then, it was too late. So I switched to diagnostic medicine. Figured I’d save some other kid from going through the same thing.”

Enjolras’s mouth opened and closed a few times as he struggled for something to say. Finally, he managed, “That’s awful and I’m sorry that your family went through that. But it doesn’t excuse you from acting like an asshole.”

Grantaire’s half-smile soured to a smirk. “Of course not,” he said easily. “I’m also a cripple. And between sister dying and cripple, most people find it in themselves to forgive me.” He gave Joly a look before turning and walking out.

Joly glanced back at Enjolras, guilty expression on his face. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” he muttered. “He doesn’t like to talk about it, doesn’t like people to know about it.”

“Why, because it might make him seem human instead of just a dick?” Enjolras shook his head and looked away. “Why did you tell me that? Am I supposed to feel sorry for him?”

Frowning, Joly said, “No, of course not. But you’re the one who’s always talking about the importance of people’s circumstances in your whole crusade to change the world.”

Enjolras snorted. “It’s a little more nuanced than that. And besides, now  _you’re_  sounding like  _him_. Crusade to change the world…maybe if Grantaire tried, he  _could_  save the world. Think of how valued his diagnostic skills would be if he took more than one patient a week and actually gave a shit.”

“Believe it or not, I think this  _is_  his way of trying to save the world.”

Snorting again, Enjolras shook his head and looked away. “You can’t save the world one person at a time.”

“But it’s the only way he knows how,” Joly reasoned, before adding shrewdly, “Besides, isn’t that what you’re doing with him?”

Enjolras glanced sharply at Joly, opening his mouth to reply, but then Grantaire came back into the room, glaring at Enjolras. “Where do you get off calling me an asshole, anyway? What have I done to you?”

Joly looked as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world but there as Enjolras struggled to sit up further, glaring right back at Grantaire. “Well, for starters, I’m your patient, and you haven’t bothered to check in on me  _once_  since I’ve been here. And I don’t even need to be a patient to know how you treat everyone you work with. Or have you forgotten that all of my friends are also all of your friends?”

“I don’t have any friends, I have colleagues,” Grantaire snapped. “And how I treat them is none of your business.”

“The hell it isn’t!” Enjolras gave up trying to sit up and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I don’t know what happened to you, and truthfully, I don’t really care. All I know is that you weren’t like this before.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Oh, is  _that_  what this is about? Because I’m not the guy you had a crush on back in college? Well, boo-hoo, Enjolras. People change. I sure as hell did.”

Enjolras shook his head. “That’s the thing,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t think you did change. I think beneath all the warped cynicism and anger, you’re still that same person, a person who was fundamentally  _good_. Maybe you weren’t fully on board with changing the world, but at least you seemed willing to try.”

“Yeah, because I was trying to get in your pants,” Grantaire shot back. “For a chance at fucking you, I would’ve said just about anything.” Enjolras recoiled, his face going white, and Grantaire sighed, running a hand across his face. “Well, there at least is your proof that I’m an asshole.”

“I don’t think—” Enjolras stopped mid-sentence. “I don’t…I don’t feel good.”

Suddenly, the beeping on his heart monitor increased, and Enjolras’s eyes rolled back, his body starting to jerk uncontrollably. “Enjolras?” Grantaire shouted, dropping his cane to rush to Enjolras’s bed. “Enjolras!”

“He’s a having a seizure!” Joly called to the nurses who came running into the room. “Push two ccs midazolam, and get him on his side.”

One of the nurses pushed Grantaire out of the way, and he stood against the wall, staring down at Enjolras with wide eyes as the nurses tended to him. When the seizures subsided, Joly crossed to Grantaire and asked quietly, “Do you still think you’re not emotionally invested?”

Grantaire just shook his head, his eyes narrowing and his expression turning contemplative. “I think that it’s not cancer.”

* * *

 

The other tests confirmed what Grantaire already suspected, and the five diagnosticians found themselves in Grantaire’s office, staring at the whiteboard with the newest symptom written on it — “seizure.” Joly stood at the back of the office, paying less attention to the other doctors and more to Grantaire, who seemed more agitated than normal. “Differential diagnosis,” Grantaire said loudly. “We have seizures as a new symptom. What are the possibilities?”

“Are we sure it’s not a virus?” Feuilly asked, sounding frustrated.

Grantaire smacked his cane down on the table. “Yes, we’re sure. Unless you want to go back and do every test again. But in the meantime, if you don’t have anything helpful to say, keep your mouth shut, and let mommy and daddy figure this out.”

Feuilly rolled his eyes but obediently kept quiet. “Come on,” Grantaire urged, limping around the room. “This is important. Your patient could be  _dying_ , and none of you even have any suggestions, besides things that we’ve already ruled out?”

“Grantaire,” Joly said, quietly. “There’s no need to yell at them.”

“There’s  _every_  reason to yell at them,” Grantaire snapped. “What good are they if they don’t start suggesting possibilities?”

Joly frowned at him. “This is because it’s Enjolras. You’re not thinking clearly. You’re emotionally compromised, and—”

“Sarcoidosis,” Prouvaire interrupted, staring at the whiteboard. “That fits.”

Bahorel frowned and shook his head. “Fits everything but the seizures. What about encephalitis? That can be autoimmune, and would explain all the symptoms, including seizures.”

“If it was autoimmune encephalitis, he would have presented with seizures from the beginning,” Grantaire told them, rubbing his forehead. “And I don’t think I’ve ever seen an encephalitis case that didn’t present without fever. Keep going.”

“We need to do more tests,” Feuilly said determinedly. “Even with seizures, we don’t have enough information. A head CT or—”

“We don’t have time for that!” Grantaire snapped. “Enjolras could be dying, and you want to run more tests? Are you  _trying_  to kill him?”

Joly crossed to Grantaire’s side, and tugged him away from where he was shouting at Feuilly. “Shouting is not going to make this better,” Joly said in an undertone. “I know that you have a lot of emotions that you’re clearly trying to work through, but these are your friends that you’re yelling at, and—”

Grantaire suddenly went still, staring at Bossuet, who stopped speaking when he saw Grantaire staring at him. “What did you say?” Grantaire asked, ignoring Joly.

“I…it was stupid,” Bossuet said, rubbing his bald head almost sheepishly. “I was just saying that there’s no paralysis, yet, but the other symptoms could by Guillian-Barré Syndrome.”

Grantaire stared at Bossuet for a long minute, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “Dr. Joly, I may just have to kiss your boyfriend.”

Joly’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed, “I mean, whatever you need to do, but  _why_?”

“Guillian-Barré doesn’t fit,” Bahorel said, sounding frustrated.

“No, it doesn’t, and it was stupid of Bossuet to suggest it,” Grantaire said, marching over to the white board and starting to write something on it. “But there’s another condition that can be mistaken for GBS in its later stages, a condition that actually fits all of these symptoms. And even better, you were right all along, Bahorel. It all comes back to the gunshot wound.”

He stepped away from the board, revealing what had been written there — “Lead Poisoning.”

“Lead poisoning?” Prouvaire asked, sounding more intrigued than anything.

“The symptoms fit,” Bahorel acknowledged, albeit grudgingly. “But how did he get lead poisoning, and what does that have to do with his gunshot wound? It’s not like he lives in a house with lead paint of is in an occupation that involves heavy metals.”

Feuilly, however, had already realized. “Of course,” he breathed. “It wasn’t a gunshot wound at all. It was birdshot — Enjolras was shot by a shotgun, and birdshot scatters across an area. It would have been very easy for the emergency room personnel to miss one of the balls inside his abdomen, especially if it got lodged behind a metal plate.”

Bossuet looked skeptical. “True, but lead birdshot is outlawed in this area for environmental reasons.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Yes, because I’m sure the guy who illegally shot Enjolras was concerned with the legality of the shotgun shells he was using.” He allowed himself a brief, victorious grin before telling them, “Start him on dimercaprol, follow up with sodium EDTA in four hours. And book an OR to get what’s poisoning him out so that the chelation works. We should be able to reverse all side effects.”

Feuilly, Bossuet, Bahorel, and Prouvaire stood up immediately and left, and Joly turned to Grantaire, half-smiling at him. “Congratulations,” he said. “Dare I ask what you’re going to do now?”

“I think a stiff drink is in order,” Grantaire muttered, rubbing his forehead.

Joly rolled his eyes. “I meant about Enjolras.”

Grantaire shrugged and looked away. “He’s cured,” he said quietly, avoiding Joly’s gaze. “I figured out what was wrong. That’s my job. And now Enjolras isn’t my problem anymore.”

“Grantaire—” Joly started, but stopped when his pager went off. “Look, we’ll talk about this more later.”

Grantaire, however, was too busy pulling his bottle of vicodin out and pouring out two white pills. “There’s absolutely nothing to talk about,” he told Joly’s retreating back as he sank into his chair. “Enjolras is going to be fine. And I will be, too.”

* * *

 

Combeferre rapped on the door to Grantaire’s office and poked his head in. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

Grantaire, who was bouncing a rubber ball against the wall and catching it again, didn’t look up. “You absolutely are. Come back later, when I might actually care what you’re going to say.”

“If I was waiting for you to care, I’d never come back,” Combeferre said lightly.

Grantaire caught the ball and glanced over to give Combeferre a sardonic grin. “Thus my point.”

Combeferre sat down across from Grantaire anyway. “You know that Enjolras is getting discharged today. The chelation therapy over the past couple of weeks has been working, and while he has to come back in for regular checkups and possibly more chelation, he’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” Grantaire said, frowning slightly. “When I cure my patients, it’s normally with the intent that they go away and I don’t see them again, so I’m not entirely sure why you’re telling me this.”

“Probably because I have little intention of going away and never seeing you again,” Enjolras said from the doorway, where he was looking much better than when Grantaire had last seen him: he had his color back, and had regained some of the weight. He was still bandaged from the abdominal surgery to remove the elusive birdshot, but he was healthy, or at least on his way to it, and his grin was as full of life as ever. “I wanted to come say thank you. Combeferre thought he might preface the conversation to, uh, prepare you, as it were.”

Grantaire snorted. “Typical.”

Combeferre stood up. “Well, since my job here is done, Enjolras, I’ll wait for you in the hallway?” He nodded at Grantaire before disappearing outside, closing the door behind him.

For a long moment, Enjolras and Grantaire just looked at each other. “So…” Grantaire started, a little awkwardly.

“Oh, right. Um. Thank you,” Enjolras told him, sincerely. “For saving my life and figuring out what was wrong with me.”

Grantaire waved a dismissive hand. “It was nothing. I’d do it for a stranger. In fact, I routinely do.”

Silence fell between them again until Enjolras said, almost frustratedly, “Oh for Christ’s sake”, and crossed the office to kiss Grantaire.

Though initially Grantaire froze in confusion, he quickly kissed Enjolras back, pushing him against the desk as he did. “If this is your way of thanking me, I quite like it,” Grantaire murmured. “You should get sick more often.”

“This isn’t about that,” Enjolras said, pulling away from Grantaire enough to look at him. “You know that, right? This — we — say what you want, but we never really figured out what was between us all those years ago. But I figure it’s worth it to try to figure that out now, don’t you think?”

Grantaire snorted and moved away from Enjolras, his shoulders stiff. “I don’t know what delusions you’re operating under, but I didn’t come see you while you were sick. And you’re apparently still a virgin. These are not the things that relationships are built on.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “You know me,” he said impatiently. “I’ve never had time for dating or relationships, and casual sex, while great in theory, has more strings attached than its worth.”

“Yet you almost found time with casual sex with me, all those years ago,” Grantaire pointed out.

“And maybe after you, there wasn’t really anyone worth that time,” Enjolras countered.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and scoffed, “It’s been twelve years, Enjolras. There’s no way you still feel the same way about me as you did back then.”

“You’re right,” Enjolras told him, suddenly serious. “I don’t feel the same way as I did back then. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel  _something_ , and I’m willing to bet that you do, too.”

Though Grantaire didn’t deny it, he also didn’t agree, instead holding out his arms slightly and asking, “What do you want me to say to that?”

“For starters, I’d like you to come to a Les Amis meeting.”

Grantaire actually laughed at that, shaking his head. “Seriously? That’s what you’re trying to get out of this? Man, that’s a whole new level of emotional manipulation.” He shook his head and looked away. “I can’t. I’m busy. I’ve got a book club those nights.”

Enjolras pursed his lips slightly. “Does that mean that you’re too busy for a date, then?”

Grantaire went very still, his expression hardening. “What do you want from me? Seriously. No jokes, no banter. What do you want from me?”

“At the moment, I want you to agree to a date with me. I also want you to agree to come to a Les Amis meeting, but for markedly different reasons.” Enjolras cocked his head slightly as he looked at Grantaire. “There’s no joke here, at least not from my end.”

Taking a deep breath, Grantaire looked away and was quiet before saying softly, “I’ve changed, you know. I did mean that, earlier. I’m not like I was when we first met, and if you’re expecting that, you’re going to be disappointed.”

Enjolras snorted. “You always were a cynical asshole. Now you’re a cynical asshole with a limp. That isn’t much different.” Grantaire huffed a laugh, and Enjolras reached out to grab his hand. “Look, I’ve changed, too. Everyone changes. But I want to get a chance to know you again. And maybe take you up on what we almost did, all those years ago. I do have to take it easy the next few weeks, after all. Doctor’s orders.”

Grantaire smiled slightly at that. “Fine. Well. In that case, I will come to a Les Amis meeting, though I’m warning you right now that I’m not expecting to get much out of it, since I doubt your idealism’s changed  _that_  much.”

Enjolras laughed and shook his head. “It’s probably a fair bet that my idealism’s only gotten worse.” He paused before asking, a little awkwardly, “And what about that date?”

As an answer, Grantaire closed the space between them and kissed Enjolras, one hand cupping his cheek, the other resting lightly against his side, careful not to press against the bandages. Enjolras kissed him back enthusiastically, and when they pulled apart this time, Grantaire muttered, “Maybe I will actually get something out of one of these meetings.”

“Yeah, and more than just a chance to ogle me,” Enjolras told him, kissing him quickly once more before sighing. “I should go. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are waiting for me.”

Grantaire made a face and was about to argue when Prouvaire pushed the door open. “Dr. Grantaire? You’ve got another patient.”

Sighing, Grantaire held his hand out for the patient chart, which Prouvaire brought him quickly, telling Grantaire as he flipped through it, “Patient is a twenty-five year old female. Bahorel thinks that the symptoms might be lupus—”

“It’s not lupus,” Grantaire muttered, scanning the file.

Enjolras cleared his throat. “So I’ll see you later?”

Grantaire glanced up and managed a small smile and wave before telling Prouvaire, “Get an MRI and a CT scan, and a more complete family history than that sorry excuse.” Enjolras slipped out of Grantaire’s office, followed closely by Prouvaire, and Grantaire swiveled around in his chair to stare out the window. He and Enjolras had a lot to work out, perhaps more than they could, twelve years of issues and avoidance, which could be the death knell for a relationship far better than theirs.

But in the meantime, Grantaire had a patient, and a case to solve, and that meant that everything else would have to wait until he did.


End file.
